An Excerpt From Matters of the Blood by Maria Lima
[ Information on Matters of the Blood ]
I know the dead and the dead know me. Not a personal choice,
mind you, just the result of being born into a family of necromancers.
It's in our blood, so to speak. Not that I am one--not yet anyway. It's
more that they needed someone to learn the family business. So instead
of more practical training, I learned how to deal with death.
Two years ago, my entire life changed and I ended up more or less
back where I'd started--the heart of Texas Hill Country in a small town
called Rio Seco--babysitting a whiny forty-year-old mortician cousin
whose idea of fun was to call me at the ass crack of what-the-hell-timeis-
it, a couple of hours past my usual dawnish bedtime, and beg for
money. Okay, I had it and he didn't, but all I wanted from him was a
little respect--you know, the stuff Aretha sang about. My cousin had
plenty of respect for his clients (actually, for their families who were
paying for his services) but not for me. Marty Nelson would always
bitch to me about his dead-end (pun intended) job, his life (mostly useless)
and his lack of funds (eternal).
Enduring two years of boredom, near-solitude, and conversations
with a man with whom I had less in common than a family pet wasn't
what I'd imagined. Okay, so I had made this choice. What can I say?
At the time, it sounded easy. I hadn't bothered to consider the consequences,
imagine the future, and recognize how unspeakably bored I
would become. Marty certainly didn't make it any easier.
Then things started changing. Over the past couple of weeks, I'd
been blessed with my own personal nightmare freak show. Lifelike
dreams, crashing into my REM cycle with an overwhelming assault
of vivid Technicolor, Surroundsound and smell-o-vision. I spent years
as Death's assistant and now those years were coming back to haunt
me . . . not with guilt or accusation, but in nightmares full of pain, fear,
violence and a hell of a lot of blood.
That was the part I kept wondering about. Clan deaths were rarely
violent, at least in the last century or so. Nowadays, when our folk died,
it was by choice, not by chance. I wasn't sure where all this was coming
from, maybe it was just my own sick psyche dealing with the so-called
facts of my life.
This last one was the worst so far. Even the bright mid-afternoon sun
couldn't chase it away. I still tasted blood, tasted death. The rich flavor of
life bleeding into lifelessness hovered at the back of my throat, covering
my tongue with that morning-after-the-night-before fuzzy coating that
makes you run to the nearest toothbrush and giant bottle of Scope.
I could still remember, every last bloody minute of it.
I ran. Faster than I could ever remember running, my feet passing
smoothly over rough terrain, my body automatically turning, avoiding
rocks, cacti, and stumps of dead mesquite dangerously spearing the still
night air. As the pale light of the nearly full moon blazed my path, my
night vision adjusted automatically.
I could smell them in front of me. Hot fear-scent mixed with the exhilaration
of the chase. This was what I wanted, what I needed.
Two hunters ran in front of me, staying in the shadows so I couldn't
see who they were. No matter; after they fed, then I would.
I lunged forward, impatient now to reach my--
The smell slammed into my nose as I heard their prey fall, one body,
then another. My gut roiled in agony, anticipation.
Blood. Lots of it. Where were they?
Fog clouded my vision. My senses shut down as the blood spoor became
my only focus. I broke through the bushes, branches scratching my
face, my arms, my body, pain receding into the background. There they
were--ahead, in a clearing just by the lake, next to the homey picnic
benches scattered throughout the small area.
Two of them, torn and bleeding. The rich scent teased me, luring me
over. I looked around. The hunters were gone. Long gone. No one was
there but the dead . . . and me.
I stepped closer. Two deer, small, defenseless, spotted bodies too
small to escape the things that chased them. I reached down, my hand
operating independently of my conscious brain, my body taking over,
knowing it needed---
I screamed as I realized that the bloody corpse nearest me wasn't a
deer after all.
It was my cousin, Marty.
Something buzzed at my hip and my hands jerked the wheel. The
Land Rover's right front tire slid off the road onto the gravel shoulder,
kicking up dust. I recovered, steering back on to the road.
Holy crap. I really had to stop thinking about this, especially while
I was driving. Maybe I should try to adjust my sleep cycle and sleep at
night, like normal people. Yeah, right. Normal. Ignore the obvious.
The buzz-tickle came again--damned cell phone. Would I ever get
used to this thing? I fumbled it out of my pocket, while steering onehanded
and answered. "Hello?"
"Hi, Marty." Great. I should have looked at the Caller ID before
answering. Of course it was Marty. Who else would call at three pm--
early for me--but my charge, my responsibility, the reason for my
dissatisfaction, and the frequent star of many of my recent nightmares?
Of course, the dreams of his death might just be the product of my
jumbled mind sorting out not-so-cousinly feelings. Could just be a bit of
scary wishful thinking. After all, two years was twenty-four months too
long to be riding herd over a man only three years my senior, especially
one as annoying as my cousin. After this last set of dreams, though, I
was considering changing my analysis. These nightmares weren't fodder
for a shrink's couch. They'd send any would-be Freud screaming.
"Are you busy?"
Busy trying to not freak out, but otherwise, not really. Can't say
busy describes my life these days.
I pulled over to the side of the road so I could concentrate on talking
to him. I didn't like to talk while driving the narrow, winding back
"Not exactly. What's up?"
He paused, as if my question was too hard to answer.
"Keira, I'm sorry, I know you hate to be called early, but . . . uhm . . . I
sort of need . . . I've got . . ." A sigh and another pause followed.
An armadillo waddled across the asphalt, its leaden progress hypersonic
compared to the conversation I didn't actually seem to be having.
The silence stretched, I could hear Marty breathing, but no words.
I finally spoke, unwilling to sit watching armadillos avoid becoming
road decor any longer.
"Marty, what the hell do you want? I can't do anything if you won't
talk to me."
Closing my eyes, I leaned back in my seat, holding on to my temper.
I could feel it rising, an almost automatic response. Deep breaths,
Keira. Slow, calming breaths. It didn't pay to get angry with Marty. He
never really noticed.
No doubt his skinny, balding self was now sitting behind his previously-
owned pressboard desk, the very picture of a respectable mortician
in a baggy Men's Wearhouse three-piece suit while I sat here like
an idiot in my vintage Land Rover Defender waiting for him to tell me
something that mattered. It never mattered to me--only to Marty and
his overbearing sense of self-importance. I could see how he thought
that. The fact I'd been "assigned" to him couldn't help his misguided
illusions of grandeur.
"I think I'm in trouble," he finally whispered. Marty's voice sounded
"How much is it this time? Another security door? The latest and
greatest embalming machine or whatever?" At the beginning of this
particular month, he'd needed to pay his property taxes. The week before
that he didn't have enough to cover an overdue invoice. Two days
before that . . . well, it was always the same thing. Just a couple of weeks
ago, I'd paid for a state-of-the-art security door after another phone
call, during which he whined for the better part of a half hour and
then gloated over his nifty new toy, an electronic door controlled by a
security touchpad. Expensive high-tech protection. Just what a small
town mortuary run by one guy and a part-time receptionist needed. As always, it had been easier to write the check and pay the invoice. If
money could buy a little peace and quiet, then so be it.
"No, it's not--Keira, I . . . can't . . . Shit. I need you to come over."
He sounded exasperated, a change from his usual pity-poor-me-Ineed-
"Excuse me? Come over? Now, before I eat breakfast?"
"I really need you to come over here, Keira."
"Why--the door break down?" I couldn't help it. I'd not only paid
way too much money for the thing, I'd also had to pay for the special
technician to come in from Austin and re-install the door after Marty's
local bargain guy messed it up.
"Look, I really need to talk to you. It's important. But I can't talk
right now, and not on the phone."
The last words were more breaths than actual words, as if he were
trying not to let someone overhear. Who, I had no idea, since the receptionist
was older than God and almost as deaf as Marty's clients,
and unlikely to be there at this hour anyway.
Damn it, if I avoided it now, he'd keep badgering me with phone
calls and voice messages until I gave in anyway. But I gave it one more
"Marty, can I call you later, after I get some food in me? I just got
"Yeah, I guess," he said, reluctantly. "But don't call, just come by
when you're done eating. I have to see you in person, Keira." He hesitated,
then continued. "This is family important . . . blood important. Please."
Bloody freaking hell. I hated this already and I didn't even know
what it was about. I'd let the words sway me, but I knew his tendency to
exaggerate. Last time he'd sworn it was a family thing he'd been scared
he'd gotten his then-girlfriend pregnant. He wanted money for an
abortion. She wanted the baby and a husband--turned out to be a false
alarm. A few weeks later, she moved to Dallas with a new guy. Marty
kept the money and bought a new suit. That was eight months ago. I told
him then that if he ever invoked the family again when it was a personal
problem, I'd call in said family. Why did I think he'd listened?
"I'll be there as soon as I can, Marty. Don't get your tighties in a
wad. Let me eat or I'll be more than useless."
I took a breath. If this was serious family business, he wouldn't
want to wait.
After a short pause, he spoke again. "I'll wait. And, Keira . . ."
The odd flat silence finally penetrated as my brain processed the
fact that Marty hung up. He'd said both "please" and "thanks"--two
words that I'd rarely heard from him over the past two years. Hmm.
I tried to ignore the distant alarm bells clamoring in my head as I
pulled back onto the road. Damn it. It really wasn't Marty's fault that
for the past several weeks, I'd woken up either just before or just after
dawn with shrieks still echoing in my ears. It also wasn't his fault
that until this last one, most of the previous nightmares involved his
screams, his blood . . . and that somehow, for some bizarre reason, I
felt guilty about it.
Okay, maybe not so bizarre considering what was happening. To
me, not Marty. I had no idea what he was on about. After two weeks,
I'd finally figured out at least part of what was going on with me. The
nightmares were just a small part of it. The paranormal floodgates had
most definitely opened, the psychic horses had gotten out, and my
personal Elvis had finally left the fucking building.
I should have known, especially after the past few visits from the
nightmare fairy, but ignoring the signs was far too easy. Ignoring
wasn't going to help now.
I saw it in the mirror this morning. It was most definitely there,
slipsliding behind my eyes, a hint of darkness, of other.
It really wasn't all that noticeable. I don't suppose it wouldn't stop
any presses or even a casual passerby. At first glance, I looked normal,
human. But I'd always known better. I was Changing--twenty years
too early and with no one to guide me--coming into my full powers as
a family member. Well, I always was GDI (goddamned independent)
and (according to my instructors) advanced for my age group. Guess
I'd have to live up to that reputation now.
Meet Keira Kelly: not-such-a-child prodigy. Height: 5' 10". Eyes:
gray. Hair: black. Likes: old movies, good books, and great wine.
Trained as: "Escort," temporarily on leave. Talents: clairvoyance, farseeing,
necromancy--a lovely smorgasbord of supernatural powers and
things that go bump in the night.
I left off shapeshifting, since it would be overkill to state the obvious.
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Copyright © 2007, Maria Lima. All Rights Reserved.